Purple To Dust
Nothing this woman does surprises me.
The tip of my tongue still alive
with her taste; with salt
from the reservoir gathered
in passion and pondered by three sheepish freckles
left blushing near the small of her back. My wife
is cooking breakfast for dinner this evening:
The quick crack of shell meeting skillet.
The slow after-sizzle of raw egg
having slimed down the ladder through smoky air
to bubbly bacon grease waiting below.
The smell of it all.
Coffee
begins
to
drip.
Soon one fried egg.
Two strips of bacon.
Toasted wheat bread with slightly melted butter
and always sticky strawberry jam
cut corner to corner -
two perfectly compatible right-triangles
in a blonde smattering of crumbs
on the plain white circle before me.
There is a tall glass of orange juice to the right of
my plate.
My wife
is the coffee-drinker in our house.
Our five-year old daughter is off
in another room playing house with stuffed iguanas
and a sticker book.
Outside
on the garden
a hushed evening rain.
Purple petunias long past their fade. Purple to dust.
Her daughter’s red tricycle rusts.
Reading the Sunday funnies, my wife silently sips her coffee.
The house has long been silent
where ghosts rinse their wares.
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